Hynd took charge of hiding the chutes and the rest of the gear and moved off some twenty yards to the north to try to bury them. He’d only been gone a matter of seconds when he whistled, twice, from the shadows and Banks went quickly over to the sarge’s position.
“I found the perfect hiding place, Cap,” he said, “but somebody — something — beat us to it.”
There was enough light to see that Hynd stood over a low walled well, one typical of desert areas. There was no wooden cradle holding a bucket and rope, only the circular hole in the ground. Banks leaned over but could only see blackness below, although there was an acrid odor that stung at his nose and tonsils.
“Water’s off,” he said.
“Aye,” Hynd said. “Smells like it. But that’s not what I called you over to see.”
The sarge leaned forward, switched on the light on his rifle and, taking care it wouldn’t be seen from a distance, shone the beam down into the depths of the well. The whole space, up to some three feet below the rim, was filled with a gray mass of fibrous string-like material that it took Banks a few seconds to identify.
“Spider web?” he said.
“Looks like it, Cap,” Hynd replied. “But look at the thickness of it; yon’s got to be a bloody enormous spider. And there’s something else.”
He moved the light over to where the web ran up the wall of the well and stopped over an area that was a lighter color, close to pure white. Banks had to lean over for a closer look before he realized he was looking at something large that had been cocooned in the web.
“What the hell is that? Goat maybe?”
“I hope so,” Hynd replied. “But look again, Cap. Tell me I’m not going mad. Tell me that doesn’t look like a human torso.”
Banks looked again. The sarge was right and the more he looked at it, the more sure he became. There was a man wrapped up in the web down the well, wrapped up tight and stashed for later.
What the hell are we into this time?
Whatever it was down in the well, it wasn’t an archaeologist in need of rescue, so Banks put it away, something to consider later if the need arose. His priority was on the rocky outcrop to the north, the ancient city that was the reason they were there.
He recalled what little the colonel had told him: the town was known as Dura-Europos, an important trade crossroads in ancient times, an old town even before the Romans took it for their own. It had seen numerous battles for supremacy over the trade routes then had lain undisturbed for many centuries and was a treasure trove of artifacts from half a dozen civilizations. Recently, it had become a magnet for insurgents looking for something they could loot and sell or trade for arms on international black markets. The archaeologists were here to see if anything could be rescued for posterity. Now it was they themselves that required rescuing.
Banks turned back to the squad. He didn’t have the three new lads straight in his head. The tall lanky black lad was Joshua, call me Joe, Davies from Glasgow, he remembered that much, for they’d got talking over a cigarette at Munich when they switched planes and discovered they knew some people in common in the city. Of the other two, they’d both been so quiet on the trip he hadn’t talked much to either. One was Brock, known to Wiggins forevermore as ‘Badger’ and the other was Wilkins but in their camo suits, flak jackets, and with their helmets and goggles on, in the dark, he couldn’t tell them apart yet, although he thought Wilkins was the smaller, slighter lad. Not that he had much to worry about, for Wiggins was in mother-hen mode with his new charges and already had them ready to move out by the time Banks and Hynd walked back over to their position.
“All present and correct, Cap,” Wiggins said. “What was so important over there?”
“Tell you later, Wiggo,” Hynd said. “First job is to find somewhere else to stash the chutes.”
They searched the immediate area quickly but found only rock and sand and Banks wasn’t keen on using the well, knowing there was a dead man already in it. They eventually buried the chutes under a pile of rocks with the rest of their kit, leaving a new cairn on the hillside that they could only hope wouldn’t attract notice until they were long gone.
Banks surveyed the terrain between them and the old walled town on the outcrop. There was a single rutted roadway leading in from the south but he ignored that; walking up and metaphorically knocking on the front door wasn’t what he had in mind. To the north, close to where the edge of the town sat high on the escarpment above a long drop to the Euphrates, the outer walls had long ago tumbled into ruin. That would be their access point. It might mean some scrambling around in the dark but the rubble would also give them cover should they need it.
“Wiggo, take Davies, you’ve got point. I’ll watch our backs. Head for the gap between the towers to the north. No shooting unless we’re shot at and radio silence until we’re inside. All clear?”
He got the OK sign from everybody, then allowed Wiggins to head the rest of the squad out before he followed. He had a last look backward as they walked off. He thought for a second that he saw a vaporous, oily sheen in the night hanging above the old well but when he looked again there was only the rocky hillside and the shimmering night sky above.
— 2 —
The scratching came again as Margaret “Maggie” Boyd bent over Jim White’s fevered torso. Heat came off the sick man in waves and he moaned. Margaret put a hand over his mouth, trying to keep him quiet. She held her breath as the scritch-scratch outside the stone door continued for five more seconds, then fell quiet.
Silence descended once again in the chamber.
The silence of the tomb.
She had to catch the laugh that threatened to bubble up; once she started, she might not be able to stop.
Jim White’s breathing slowed and he was out for the count, whether sleeping or unconscious made little difference given his condition. In their current circumstances, Maggie envied him the oblivion.
The attack had come without warning and so suddenly she wasn’t quite sure, even two days later, what had actually happened.
And I don’t know what they are.
There had been the four of them working in the fifteen-foot square chamber, digging some three feet below the old floor leveclass="underline" herself, Jim White, Jack Reynolds, and Kim Chung Won. The noise had come in from somewhere outside, as if funneled and amplified along the corridor. Loud shouting, then louder shooting and accompanying screams echoed loudly around them and White had been the first to react.
“Rebels,” he said. “Stay here and keep quiet, I’ll check it out.”
The next few minutes were endless, punctuated by wails, screams, and more shooting but Maggie and the others knew better than to venture out of the chamber; it had been their choice to come to a war zone but they didn’t have to be stupid about it. They could only sit, listen, and wonder as to their fate should anyone other than Jim White be the one to return.
White had come back at a run two minutes after the last shot they heard and not long after the wailing died down, leaving a silence that was nearly as terrifying. He dumped two rucksacks on the floor and turned to put his shoulder to the heavy stone doorway of the chamber.
“Help me. We need to get this closed. Get it closed now,” he shouted. He was wide-eyed, pale-faced, and had blood pouring from a wound in his left shin but wouldn’t speak until the door was fully shut. It took all four of them to get it into place but finally it closed with a rasp of stone on stone and sat flush with hardly a groove to show where it met the wall. Margaret had no idea how they’d ever get it open again but White didn’t seem to think that a matter of import at the moment.